Sharp
by ParlorGamesToMe
Summary: "Perhaps it's weakness, the opposite of a sense of self preservation, because his mind drifts away from the beautiful memories and delves into the bitter ones. Head first, he dives." During the battle, Clint can't stop thinking of his hatred of Loki and his love for Natasha.


And he maybe does remember Budapest differently. Clint remembers the smooth feel of her skin on his. He remembers running his hands through that red, red hair. He remembers his name on her lips, a tenderness that he has yet to hear again, as if that moment of love made her weak. He remembers her sweater on the floor, her clothes pooling in front of him. He remembers the change in her eyes, the softening glance she bestowed on him when she believed he wasn't looking- he was always looking. He remembers- perhaps even better than she- Budapest. He remembers the things she hides away. Aching and raw in the best sort of way, the memories surface. He clings to them, only them, pushing away the pieces of things past. Not Loki, he absolutely doesn't see Loki's visage. Concentrate on Natasha, he advises himself. Concentrate on her.

But he can't. Loki's manic eyes edge out hers, glittering in her skull. Slowly, his angular features replace hers. Sharp, sharp, sharp, so very sharp. Her hair darkens. And suddenly, she is not Natasha anymore. She is a dimmer outline. She- he- opens a thin lipped mouth and laughs. Perhaps it's weakness, the opposite of a sense of self preservation, because his mind drifts away from the beautiful memories and delves into the bitter ones. Head first, he dives.

He equates Loki's hold to possession. Loki forced something demonic, something inhuman, into his throat, pushed it down, and Clint gagged at the sulfuric taste. It went inside anyway. Stuffed into his body, that thing didn't quite fit. The being may have been drawn out, but the chill has yet to leave Clint. Until Loki, he never really knew what winter felt like.

Loki would have made him kill her. That much Clint knows.

Would have forced Clint's hands around her throat, a knife to her neck, an arrow deep inside her body, Loki would have led Clint to it. And he would have followed the orders gladly, grinning bright, eyes an eerie electric blue, proud and triumphant as she struggled beneath him.

In between those moments of lost time, lucidity tried to sneak in. Clint would see blood on his hands and for a moment, her hair would flash into his mind, only to be chased away. His bow would be strung and his arrows near, but something would smell off. A scent he couldn't place would fill the air, a lovely perfume that would dance in front of his nostrils, so familiar, only to dissipate. The breeze would pass by, carrying a sound he couldn't identify, something familiar. The noise would brush his ears, so muted, too hushed to decipher. His face would reflect back at him in a puddle of water, and Clint would detect something not quite right, an element out of place that he couldn't distinguish. Wasn't he supposed to be somewhere else? To be someone else? He couldn't quite recall. Something was missing, on the tip of his tongue; he couldn't assemble the image. Just a bunch of scattered pixels, unsolvable. He'd shake it off, shake it all off.

'Shoot, 'Loki would command him. 'Shoot them all.' His arrows struck true, piercing bodies that weren't hers.

Oh, God, how many had he slaughtered? Killing before had been so simple. Strike down the monsters of the world, the criminals and malevolent, no harm done, no marks upon him. The job had always been straightforward, no consequence. A service, even, and valuable one at that, for his country. Until then, he could almost call himself a hero. But this, this takeover had been dissonant. Innocents- were they even innocents, he didn't know anymore- had been slaughtered. And oh, God, how easily he'd fallen into place, a perfect clockwork soldier, unwavering.

No, no, no, no, be silent, be silent, fight, fight, fight, fight, focus, focus.

His mind is anything but clear.

Sometimes, he ponders what would have occurred if Natasha hadn't been the better fighter. If her breathing had slowed then stopped, if her slashed throat had gushed crimson, if her body had been speared by spiny tips. But, then, she always did know how to win. How to defeat him, to make his knees buckle and his mouth fall slack, surveying him like the boneless figure she had transformed him into. For that, he is grateful. He tells himself that lingering on the possible futures-that-were-not is a luxury he cannot afford. Focus. Fight. Win. Still, he disobeys the scolding. Instead, his mind drifts back to Natasha again. Always back to her.

He wouldn't have minded if she snapped his neck. Better him than her. Maybe this makes him frail, makes her strong, the thing that arranges them into different classes altogether. The darkening thought, the picture in his mind of her death, drives him. It may not be the best catalyst, but something must fuel him.

So, with every kill, his relish grows. Fed, but not nearly satiated, he fights. Fights for her and him and them and he knows she never needed anyone to fight for her, but he does anyway. Up the body count. Higher and higher and higher and they will pay, they will all pay.

He likes the idea of Loki's agony. More than likes it, actually. Loves it, pictures it, holds it against his breast. Clint would even be willing to enact it himself. Eye hanging from his socket, head on a pike- would it just grow back?-, beaten by his own limbs, hung by a noose of his own intestines, choking to death on his liver, cut and slashed and staked to a slab by Clint's keen arrows, Loki will scream out.

Can Gods even die?

Clint is more than happy to test it. A fun little science experiment. Tony and Bruce, too, can join in. They would have some creative ideas to contribute, and far more materials to examine with. A magnificent plan. Yes, something to go back to. He makes note to remember it.

In brief instances, he can still see Natasha. A part of him wishes to go after her, to fight side by side, but another reprimands him. She is more than proficient. There remains no time for aimless admiration. When they win, Clint decides, he will find time. He will, he will, he will, a promise to her that she cannot hear.

As each creature hits the ground, redemption does not find Clint. So, he shoots again. Arrow after arrow after arrow after arrow and why isn't he whole again? They screech at him in their death throes. Salvation doesn't wait at the tip of an arrow.

So, maybe, Clint enjoys himself. Maybe with each murder, his joy rises. Maybe, the more that he slaughters, the better he feels. Joyful, yes, forgiven, no. This appears to be just a temporary cure, but it's better than ailing instead.

It's all in the execution.

Besides, when smug, swaggering Loki grasps his arrow, giving Clint his best 'bitch, please' face, only to have the arrow explode in his face, well, that more than helps cheer Clint up. If only the moment could have been captured on film, Clint laments. Natasha, he thinks, would have loved to view it. Hell, he'd watch it on repeat, too. Again and again again. Tumble, Loki, tumble you despicable beast. Shatter, thing, shatter. He will slice you, he will break your bones, he will claw out your eyes, you miserable excuse for a god. Wretched, wretched beast.

After Bruce- the Hulk, he reminds himself, there's a difference- strikes, slamming Loki into the floor, battering and bruising the God, Clint would have killed to have it recorded. Ah, memories. Tony retells the story again and again over shawarma, slapping Bruce on the back.

Even then, something twinges. It throbs, raw and sore. Red, red, red, red, crimson, and scarlet and so very red, everything is red.

He can't even bring to mind the color of Chitauri blood; though, in actuality, it hardly matters, not when all he sees is red.

Somehow, blood on his hands, blood of creatures that hold no trace of humanity, begins to heal him. Blood for blood. Kill, kill, kill, kill- it is his job. No regret here, not when this helps the screaming people in the streets.

Isn't an eye for an eye the fairest kind of trade?

.

He needs to stop wavering, switching back and forth. Consistency is key.

The battle ends, eventually. They sneak out through the wreckage with Loki. Clint decides not to ask Tony why he owns such an elaborate gag or such strong handcuffs. It's better left unsaid. Some things shouldn't be answered.

Maybe Clint remembers Budapest.

Maybe he remembers Loki's hold.

Maybe he remembers the deaths.

Maybe he remembers only Natasha.

Or, maybe, he remembers it all.


End file.
